


If you're kind to my heart (and come back home to me)

by CamilleDuDemon



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Chance Meetings, Established Relationship, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Meeting on the Path, Non-Graphic Smut, Witchers have feelings, domestic undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26931862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon
Summary: “Care for a round of cards, Wolf?”Geralt doesn’t immediately lift his gaze from the bowl of soup he’s scraping with a piece of slightly stale bread, yet he feels his heart leap in his chest as soon as he picks up Eskel’s scent from the crowd crammed inside the inn. Of course he would recognize his voice even while deafened by the loud, ugly whistling of many flutes. Of course he would smell him even in a crowd like this, of sweating roustabouts, dusty miners, perfumed whores and onions simmering in a thick broth of vinegar and fat. Of course he would.“Eskel.”He can’t help but let his lips curl in a smile as soon as his gaze meets Eskel’s. He’s smiling too, even if the large hood of his cloak is masterfully concealing his features. He leans nonchalantly against the doorframe, and Geralt’s breath get caught in his throat as soon as he notices how beautifully he takes up all the space he can with his broad shoulders. The Path must have been kind to him, this year. However, Geralt will see it for himself as soon as Eskel gets rid of the cloak – and maybe of something more, hopefully.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 17
Kudos: 52





	If you're kind to my heart (and come back home to me)

“Care for a round of cards, Wolf?”

Geralt doesn’t immediately lift his gaze from the bowl of soup he’s scraping with a piece of slightly stale bread, yet he feels his heart leap in his chest as soon as he picks up Eskel’s scent from the crowd crammed inside the inn. Of course he would recognize his voice even while deafened by the loud, ugly whistling of many flutes. Of course he would smell him even in a crowd like this, of sweating roustabouts, dusty miners, perfumed whores and onions simmering in a thick broth of vinegar and fat. Of course he would.

“Eskel.”

He can’t help but let his lips curl in a smile as soon as his gaze meets Eskel’s. He’s smiling too, even if the large hood of his cloak is masterfully concealing his features. He leans nonchalantly against the doorframe, and Geralt’s breath get caught in his throat as soon as he notices how beautifully he takes up all the space he can with his broad shoulders. The Path must have been kind to him, this year. However, Geralt will see it for himself as soon as Eskel gets rid of the cloak – and maybe of something more, hopefully.

Eskel gives him that sort of a lopsided smile that makes Geralt’s heart skip a beat or two, then he steps away from the doorframe, towards the limp bench Geralt’s occupying on his own. One of the few perks of being a witcher, a mutant, is that no one wants to share a seat with a you, not even when the inn is bursting with patrons to its maximum capacity. He stands up, anyway, his soup now forgotten. It would be extremely rude for him to welcome Eskel to his table while remaining seated. He’s not that kind of boor.

Eskel is quick to close the small distance between them, gripping the back of his neck and dropping their foreheads together with just a tad of eagerness enough to hurt a little.

They stay like this for a while, breathing each other in, until Geralt decides that they have already caused quite of a scene and gently frees himself from Eskel’s possessive grip.

“Please. Have a seat”, he says, gesturing towards his table. His swords have been propped up neatly against the wall, next to a pile of broken stools that will soon be turned into firewood. When he sighs, he’s still breathing Eskel’s scent mixed with the fresh, fragrant smell of the downpour raging outside. It tingles in his nostrils, sending a shiver of pure, untamed pleasure right to his lower belly. A growl rises to his throat, but he does his best to keep it at bay, letting it rumble quietly in his chest.

The disfigured wolf gives him another warm smile before taking a seat next to him, popping his sore joints with visible pleasure.

“It’s been a long ride. Do you think there’s something left to eat in the kitchens?”

Geralt nods.

“Roasted eels, apparently. I saw a couple of scrawny boys bringing the eels in. Should ask the maiden, though. What are you having with the food? Ale?”

“Yes, please. Had enough water when I was riding here.”

Geralt lets out an amused huff.

“Yeah, had my fair share too”, he replies, brushing his fingers casually against Eskel’s thigh. He can see his eyelids flutter under the hood at the touch. “Where were you headed?”

“Nowhere. I’ve picked up your scent at the crossroads and followed your trail, _Wolf,_ hoping I could –” Eskel stumbles, suddenly embarrassed. Geralt squeezes his firm thigh, marveling at the sculpted marble of his muscles through the layer of hard leather of his mud-stained breeches. The languid gold of his irises is a warm invitation, so Eskel picks up where he has left off, gold meeting gold and melting into something terribly soft, so soft it almost hurts. “ – run into you.”

“And you keep saying your luck is rotten.”

“Shut up. I couldn’t be sure. Could have been a major waste of my time, you know?”

Geralt smirks. A young maiden comes with Eskel’s food and two tankards of watery ale, and Geralt tips her nicely.

“Yeah. Could have been. How are you doing, Eskel?”

The disfigured witcher finally drops his hood, a small smile on his ruined yet still beautiful lips. He keeps his long hair loose on the shoulders. Geralt doesn’t remember having seen him with hair this long since their training years.

“Can’t complain. I’ve found plenty of contracts so far and the season’s not finished yet. I’ve been in Novigrad too, you know? Bought some nice things. Spent a couple of nights at the plays. It’s been nice. What about you? Your purse looks heavy…”, he points out with a merry look.

“Yeah, I’ve earned every fucking lintar of it. I’ll fill you in later with the details. Done some curse-lifting, by the way. It’s been exhausting.”

Eskel snorts, fishing some eel out of the pool of fat in the platter and giving it a tentative bite. It doesn’t take long for him to start wolfing down the meal with gusto, like a starving man on a very, very busy schedule.

“That’s why I rarely engage in lifting curses, Wolf”, he replies with his mouth still full. Geralt shakes his head, letting Eskel clean his platter in a sort of a companionable silence, broken only by the nasty sound of flutes and tabors being tortured by incompetent, drunk minstrels while other drunkards sing – shout, more accurately – filthy songs. Eskel laughs lightly at the lyrics of a particularly _evocative_ piece about lady parts.

“A rather charming place, uh?”, he remarks, the hint of sarcasm making his voice even huskier.

“Beggars can’t be choosers. I was planning on riding to Gulet, but the storm has messed up with my plan. Didn’t want Roach to get too wet.”

Eskel merely curls the outer corner of his mouth.

“I’m happy the weather messed everything up, then. I missed you, Wolf.”

A mouthed confession, almost. Geralt’s fingers find Eskel’s, thumbs stroking with the outmost care the marred skin of their hands. There’s a new, tiny scar on the back of Eskel’s right hand. “A little brawl in a tavern”, he says, when Geralt’s inquisitive gaze meets his.

No one seems to give a shit about two big, scary men holding hands in public. Or maybe they do, maybe every single drunkard crawling around is feeling sick at the sight, but no wise man – no matter how drunk he might be – will purposefully start a fight with a witcher. Not that it doesn’t happen often, though. People are rarely wise, these days.

Geralt orders something more to eat, then. After the generous tip, the young maid is friendly and bright as she pirouettes all the way to the kitchens to ask for something more for the two _gentlemen_ sitting next to the fireplace. He lets Eskel tell him about his journey from Kaedwen to Ebbing, then from Ebbing to Novigrad; he has always felt this weird fascination for the South. He talks about Southern poetry with the same confidence he would pour into a long dissertation about monsters, avoiding the obnoxious pomp of certain scholars. Geralt has always thought he was fit for lecturing in Oxenfurt – Eskel always says that’s his retirement plan.

He talks, even though he’s never been much of a talker. He talks about Southern libraries bursting with rarities, the crowded markets, the small lakes reflecting the moon at night, perfectly round mirrors full of fishes he has never seen in the Northern Realms. They have missed each other so much it feels liberating to finally share tales, though winter has yet to come and the Path is still long.

They have some more beer. Witchers don’t get drunk easily, since their mutated body is very quick to process and filter away most of the toxic substances known. Eskel is still hungry and Geralt shares with him the remnants of his second meal. Their fingers remain safely entwined, occasional strokes making them both hum contentedly as the merry drunkards sing their obscene songs, and the minstrels play so awfully that Geralt would gladly pay them up to stop and never pick up a flute again.

***

“You weren’t really planning on playing cards, were you?”

Eskel chuckles quietly. The noise in the inn has considerably subsided as soon as the innkeeper has threatened the loudest group of drunkards to kick them out in the rain if they didn’t shut their “ _godsdamned hole”_ , then called their mothers, fathers, and a bunch of other close relatives with names Eskel would never dare to repeat out loud.

His impossibly long fingers travel from Geralt’s palm to the pulse point on his wrist, tenderly indulging on a particular spot where Geralt’s veins thump closer to the surface and his pulse nudges gently against the sensitive skin of his fingertips.

“No, I really wasn’t, no”, he chuckles. Geralt smirks instead.

“Good. Because I have rented a room, you know? And it would be terribly awful if I had to sleep alone.”

He feels Eskel shudder slightly. His smirk widens.

“Got something in mind, Wolf?”

He doesn’t answer.

***

They fuck lazily, taking their sweet time on savoring each other. Eskel’s skin is dark and it does still smell of sun and wheat and meadows filled with any sort of flower and fragrant herb. Geralt can even picture him: tall grass, so tall it brushes against his hips as he wanders through the wilderness, all alone, breathing in as much southern summer as he can. The sweet scent of freshly baked bread coming from a nearby farm. Oh, how nice would it be to share that countryside idyll with him. As Eskel buries himself deeper and deeper into him, Geralt can’t help but picture them fucking in that very meadow, their obscene moans and groans and whimpers caught through the thick blades of wet grass.

Geralt can’t tell how much it takes for both of them to walk over the edge and then spiral into a bone-crushing, draining orgasm that leaves them spent and disheveled, panting inside each other’s mouths as they kiss ravenously, all teeth and tongue.

Eskel’s thundering heartbeat sounds almost deafening to Geralt’s ears. Gods be damned, he could drown on that sound and die a happy man. A satisfied, long sigh escapes his lips.

“I missed you too”, he whispers, placing a tiny, chaste kiss on Eskel’s left pectoral. He can’t resist the urge of scraping his teeth against his marred skin, and Eskel doesn’t flinch away when he gives in ad bites down gently.

His brother hums softly, stroking the small of his back as if he was petting a particularly frail, docile pup.

“You’ve got new scars, wolf”, he states, his finger running across a jagged scar near his tailbone. Geralt shrugs noncommittally.

“This one is well deserved. I got cocky during a fight. Vesemir would have kicked me square in the butt, if he’d been there to witness it.”

“I should kick you on his behalf, then.”

“Shut up, you’ve got new scars too.”

He chuckles under his breath. Geralt’s talking about the large, rough scar cutting through the soft tissue between Eskel’s fifth and sixth rib. He must have been injured by something very large and very angry, with sharp claws that have managed to rip through the layers of hardened leather and cloth, reaching for the vulnerable muscle underneath.

“Slyzard”, he states dryly. “Foul asshole fueled by mating-induced euphoria.”

Geralt can’t help but give him quite of an impressed look.

“It required stitches”, he says, running his thumb over the almost invisible lines left by the stitches. The perfect symmetry of the whole suggests a skillful, steady hand. A healer, for sure. Or a medic, though medics usually don’t treat witchers. Eskel merely nods, before changing subject.

“Might ask for a bath, provided the fee is reasonable. I can still smell the road on me…and the road stinks.”

Great snorts quietly, shifting until he’s able to bury his nose in the line of soft, dark hair running down Eskel’s stomach to his groin, where the line turns into a thick and curly bush in which his now resting cock is comfortably nested. It won’t stay like this for long, Geralt knows it. They’re going to fuck again and again until they find themselves to be barely able to sit straight, because that’s what they do when they run into each other on the Path – and it’s been damn long since the last time it happened. They don’t care if their heart is set on someone else, by the time they meet; they just have sex. It comes as naturally as breathing, after all this time, and it feels almost as necessary.

“Really? I can smell myself on you, and I don’t stink”, Geralt purrs – because he does, of course, he does purr, but only when he’s alone with Eskel. Eskel bites at his own lower lip involuntarily.

“You’re playing with fire”, he whispers, as he starts to get hard again. Geralt does his best to rub up against him, an insolent grin plastered on his lips.

“I know.”

“I thought you were wiser than that, Wolf…”

“Did you?”

His brother doesn’t answer, pulling him up and devouring his lips instead. So they’re back at it, their own kind of dance. Graceless, sometimes even brute, rough enough to leave marks and bruises. They stake their claims with bites and scratches. If one of them draws blood, it gets instantly lapped clean with the flat of a burning tongue. It ain’t always like this, of course. They can be gentle, they _are_ gentle, it’s just that – it’s just that gentle doesn’t always happen to be enough.

Both Eskel and Geralt lose track of time soon enough. Their last fuck could have lasted an entire bloody week for all they know, when they find themselves panting into each other’s shoulder, shuddering, gripping at each other so tight that fingers dig into the flesh to the point of physically hurting, their bodies slick with sweat yet still searching for that kind of intimacy they’ve lost as soon as Geralt has slipped out of Eskel’s warmth, spilling the last drops of his orgasm on the once clean sheets.

The wind still whips furiously against the building and it hasn’t stopped raining yet. The downpour rages relentlessly, making the ruined, stained glass panels at the window rattle with its force.

Neither of them dares to break the nice silence with useless talking. Their hearts can speak for them after all, as the two witchers snuggle chest to chest, their heartbeats slowly matching until they regain their usual steady pace.

Eskel drifts off first, his grip around Geralt’s waist loosening as he dances on the brink of consciousness with fluttering eyelids and small, almost unnoticeable twitches in his lips. When he finally gives in to a peaceful sleep, Geralt presses a kiss to his bare shoulder, brushing his mouth against a fading scar in the crook of his neck. He doesn’t remember where Eskel has got this one in particular, nor what or who caused it. It’s too small to determine if it’s the ghost of a claw mark, or what’s left of an ancient vampire bite. A little smile blooms on his lips while he moves to Eskel’s back, careful not to disturb his sleep too much, and his fingers start roaming lazily, light as a feather, navigating through the many scars Geralt is more than just familiar with. Katakan claws between Eskel’s shoulder blades. The long, straight cut from a harpy talon. A nasty ghoul bite on the ribs. It’s nearly a dozen years old, now, but Geralt remembers Eskel coming back to Kaer Morhen with a fever so high he could have cooked a godsdamned egg on his forehead, barely able to dismount his horse, his blood boiling and freezing at the same time and a dehydration so severe his lips had chapped and bled profusely. He sighs at the memory and shoves it away with a feeble wave of his hand.

He should sleep.

He really should get some well-deserved sleep. Yet, he can’t help but spend the rest of the night – is it night at all? He’s not sure. The light has changed and the loud noise coming from downstairs has almost faded completely, which could only mean that it’s quite late, but he doesn’t feel like checking, just not yet – watching Eskel sleep, holding him, kissing his forehead and his nose as he mutters some nonsense when he dreams.

It dawns, gray and rainy. When Eskel wakes up, Geralt nuzzles his nose contentedly in the crook of his neck.

“It’s still raining”, he states in such a fashion that his brother already knows where the conversation is going. He hears him choke on a chuckle.

“Yeah.”

“You staying a while more?”

Now there’s the soft brushing of Eskel’s lips against his hair. Fleeting. Tender. Gentle. In all honesty, Geralt can’t recall if anyone has been gentle at all with him, since he has left the keep in spring.

“Want me to stay, Wolf?”

“Yes.”

_Please._

***

They don’t leave the rented room for the rest of their stay. Geralt asks for any meal to be served upstairs, and the innkeeper looks visibly relieved at his odd request, because the presence of a witcher in town always causes some commotion, but two witchers? Could be though to handle all the fuss.

They both enjoy some rest, even if it’s only for a few days. It’s nice not to feel the urge of being constantly on the move. It feels so fucking good not wishing to be anywhere else but in their shared room doing absolutely nothing, that Geralt almost feels guilty for it. Guilt doesn’t last long, though. It dissipates like fog on a sunny day as soon as Eskel’s gaze meets his, and he gives him that sort of faint, broken smile that never fails at shattering Geralt’s heart into a thousand pieces.

“We could spend the rest of the season together”, he says, trying to sound as casual as he can. “I’ve heard they’re having quite some troubles in Temeria, you know? Wraiths, kikimores, even a suspected vampire. Or we could head up north, if you’d like, it’s been a while since I’ve last been in Pont Vanis…”

Geralt bites at his own cheek, tasting blood as soon as his sharp canine breaks the tender lining within his mouth.

“Would be nice”, he whispers. He knows they won’t, by the way. Witchers are meant to be solitary creatures, they work and travel alone, both he and Eskel have learned the lesson a long time ago. No honeymoon for two while hunting beasts. Witchers aren’t supposed to have feelings, to want something, to hope and dream. They have already come to terms with that.

Eskel takes the hint without Geralt needing to say anything. He just gives him that kind of sad, broken smile again, and nods his head, running his fingers through a wayward strand of Geralt’s loose hair, tucking it behind his ear. Geralt leans into the touch, rubbing his temple against Eskel’s warm fingers, his eyes fluttering close.

“Yeah, would be, Wolf. It would be.”

***

The weather breaks suddenly on their third, maybe fourth day of stay at the inn. Geralt couldn’t say, he hasn’t kept count. The innkeeper pesters him with questions, more than anxious to get rid of the two witchers nested in his most comfortable, secluded room upstairs, but another generous tip is enough to convince him to take his nagging elsewhere.

Eskel starts sharpening his swords, the small window opened wide to let the late summer sun in along with the clear, crisp air, his disfigured face towards its gentle rays. He works quietly, with his eyes pinched shut, so used at it that he doesn’t even need to watch what he’s doing to know that he’s doing it right – even more so, perfectly, Geralt dares to think.

Almost hypnotic to watch.

The whetstone runs up and down the length of Eskel’s steel sword first, and the metal sings its familiar song, ringing into Geralt’s ears almost pleasantly. He thinks about home. About Kaer Morhen as it was before the raid that has reduced the School of the Wolf down to four people – the hallways didn’t seem so utterly long and dark, back then, nor the courtyard had ever been so silent. There was always that song of steel and silver lingering in the air, with the smell of herbs and sweat and blood always clinging to everyone’s clothes and gear. _Not exactly the best place where to grow up, but not the worst either._

He grabs a chair and drags it quietly next to the low stool on which Eskel is perched and, without uttering a word, he starts sharpening his steel sword too. As Eskel’s whetstone sings its song against the polished steel, Geralt gets dragged back to a particularly sunny afternoon of their sixteenth year – almost a lifetime ago, now. He can still see Eskel’s young, unmarred face, as he sits cross-legged on the hard stone of the courtyard, humming a tune under his breath, sharpening his sword in the sun, shirtless, his lean muscles still growing, swelling, to shape him into the bulky man he is now. He remembers sitting next to him just like that, elbows brushing as they both sharpen their swords, enjoying a rare moment of peace together.

Present-day Geralt smiles at the thought. Present-day Eskel, still with his eyes closed, gives him a questioning raised brow.

“Nothing”, it’s Geralt’s answer. “I was just dwelling on the past.”

Eskel chuckles quietly, swinging on the small stool to nudge at his brother with his shoulder.

“Shit, we’re getting old”, he states, still leaning on Geralt.

They stay like this for a good while, an old married couple warming their bones in the sun, not exactly bothering to move until the light changes slightly and the air becomes hot enough to prickle at their face. Knowing that they’ll soon part again, they spend the rest of the day in bed, naked as the day they’ve been born, fucking each other to the point of sheer exhaustion – and then some.

As another dawn approaches, the sense of inevitability becomes almost oppressive. They try to fight against it by snuggling as close as they can, almost bruising their ribs, almost chocking in the tight knot of limbs they have become.

“Geralt –“

Eskel never calls him like that. He gulps down the lump in his throat and dares to answer with a faint “Mmmh?”

“Can you please – loosen up a bit? You’re squeezing too hard.”

Honestly, what did he expect? He mutters a very awkward, very embarrassed “Sorry Eskel”, then he settles into a comfortable position against his chest. “You comfortable?”, he asks, chewing at his lower lip. His brother nods, resting his hand on his back and leaving a trail of chaste kisses on his forehead, smoothing all the lines and wrinkles away.

“We should get some sleep, Wolf”, suggests. Geralt agrees, snuggling into his warm and welcoming chest, filling his nostrils with their now mixed scents. It’s both tragic and beautiful that he’ll smell Eskel on himself for weeks, after this.

Gods, how much he’s going to miss him.

***

Eskel’s mare grazes at the soft, wet grass as if she didn’t have her fill on good oats and vegetables. Roach, on the other hand, is growing restless, snorting and stomping her hoof on the ground to urge Geralt to leave.

The thing is – he doesn’t want.

Not yet, at least.

The sun is getting higher in the clear sky. Peasants are already busy in the fields, tending at the crops, at the beehives lined up a little bit too close to the road.

It would be nice to stay a while more. Roach is not of the same opinion.

“Eskel –“

“I know, we should go.”

“I would have liked to stay. It’s nice here. I thought it was only mining ground when I first set foot here, but it turned out it’s really not.”

Eskel sighs, then nods. His mare whinnies when he pats her on the neck, clicking his tongue.

“Are you sure you want to part? There’s still plenty of time, we could – I don’t know. Toussaint, perhaps? Provided that you’re not headed north, as I suggested when –”

Geralt shakes his head. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to say goodbye, to let Eskel go. But it’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?

_It’s the right thing to do._

“I’ll see you in Kaer Morhen this winter. Just – come home, all right? In one piece. Be careful, Eskel.”

_Don’t die._

Eskel lets out another sigh. It’s weary and sad, and it makes Geralt’s heart ache.

“Same goes for you, Wolf. Don’t play knight. Don’t fool around. And don’t be late, please; Lambert and I nearly got killed to drag your sorry frozen ass to the keep, last year.”

Geralt frowns.

“Last year? I’m sure it was something like five, six years ago. Less than ten, by the way. But not last year.”

“Yeah, as you say, Wolf.”

They both chuckle quietly. A long, tense silence follows.

“So you’re – you’re headed to Toussaint?”

Eskel shrugs.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not sure I’d enjoy the wine and the music, now. What – what about you?”

Geralt doesn’t know. Roach snorts again, impatiently. Eskel outstretches his hand, their fingers entwine for a moment before he spurs his mare.

“Stay safe, Wolf. And don’t be late.”

“You too, Eskel. You too.”

He watches Eskel ride at a slow pace down the highway towards the crossroads. His scent still lingers, comforting and bitter, as warm as the day ahead.

Roach whinnies, chasing away some flies with her ears.

“I know. Let’s go, girl”, he says, spurring her down the opposite road. North it is, then. Pont Vanis, maybe. Perhaps Eskel will change his mind and they’ll meet there.

_Perhaps…_


End file.
